Metamorphosis
by JamesLuver
Summary: A life shattered does not have to be broken forever. It is simply different when the pieces are put back together; a mosaic that doesn't have to be less beautiful just because it has imperfections.


**A/N:** I didn't think I'd get anything done for this month, but here we are. As some of you know, these last two weeks have been the worst of my life and inspiration is pretty much non-existent right now. But I do have birthday fics to finish, so I will try.

This was inspired by the post that was created on Tumblr a while back now, where someone in the DA fandom put together a list of quotes and encouraged writers to create fics based on them. I can't remember who, but all credit goes there for the inspiration. I liked the look of several of the quotes and realised I could fit them all in one fic.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own _Downton Abbey_.

* * *

 _Metamorphosis_

' _The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained.' – Little Birds_

She leaves him like a thief in the night.

One morning, they wake up tangled together, laughing and kissing and exchanging touches that become less and less chaste until she swats his hand away from the hem of her gown and tells him that they can't, because they're late as it is. Tonight, she promises with a saucy lilt in her voice.

The night brings a cold and unyielding Anna who sleeps on the very edge of the bed as if the mere thought of being anywhere near him disgusts her.

The next morning, she is gone.

He tries to seek her out, but her words are clipped and forced, as if she can't bear the idea of them being in the same vicinity. She announces that she has to go to London with no emotion, jumps as if he's slapped her when he brings his hand down on her shoulder. Her words cut him to the pulsing wick when she all but tells him that she feels stifled by their constant togetherness. He'd had no idea. She'd never shown any discontent before.

When she leaves, she doesn't even glance in his direction.

He spends the time that she is away brooding, wondering where things went wrong between them. There has to be some significance in the fall that she'd had. There has to be. They'd argued, true, but there had been tentative peace between them before she'd gone downstairs, a peace that would surely have been cemented once they'd returned home. He should have gone downstairs with her. If he had, he might have caught her and prevented her injury.

 _What if she was pregnant,_ a nasty voice in the back of his head whispers, _what if there's no baby anymore because of you?_

The thought won't leave him. He hates himself.

He tries to tread gently when she returns, but there is a soullessness about her that frightens him, and she backs away like a terrified rabbit cornered by the fox. She won't allow him anywhere near, and his heart fractures open when she tells him that she's moving back into the house. _For Lady Grantham_ , she tells him, and while he accepts it on the surface with no further argument, afraid of what will happen if he does, her words are hollow and unfeeling. There is no nostalgic regret, no whispers of longing for Lady Grantham to hurry up and find a maid so she can return. She packs her bag while he is at the house, and when he returns home, she is gone, like a wisp of smoke or a figment of his imagination conjured up on the brink of madness. She skirts around him in the house, keeps her gaze away from his, refuses to allow him to catch her alone for more than a second.

They were lovers once, but now they are strangers.

In the darkness of the cottage, surrounded by the cold bed sheets, he allows the tears to fall. Torments himself with the possibilities of what has gone wrong between them. Hates himself for his ignorance. Blames her a little in the darkest of nights, too, for leaving him with no explanation. If she has fallen out of love with him, or blames him for something, then surely he has a right to know what it is, so he can either try to fix it or end her suffering for good? He would never want to hold her in a marriage that no longer brings her any joy, but after all they have endured together, doesn't he deserve to understand what has changed between them, whatever the cost to his heart?

The monotonous days stretch and stretch before them. He still can't catch her alone. Even in a crowd, her answers are clipped and to the point. The others share curious glances across them. Others smirk, as if they'd known that it could never last. And all he can do is stand there, feel the fissures beneath his feet as the ground cracks open, splitting them apart from each other.

All he can do is watch her drift further and further away from him, perhaps never to return again.

* * *

' _I don't know if you're really there; if you're still you; but I love you.' – Rafael Castillo Zapata_

Their journey back towards each other is slow and painful, but their first victory is Anna's agreement to move back into the cottage. It's a victory that they should never have needed, but John can't dwell on that. If he dwells on any of it too much, he knows he will go mad.

And yet there it is, at every turn. In Mrs. Hughes' guilty face. In Anna's own, pale and thin and frightened, as if she has been parted from her very soul and left a hollow shell. In her eyes that have lost their lustre, in the mouth that has almost forgotten how to smile, in the body that stiffens when something brushes up against it unexpectedly.

They're trying. They're both trying so hard. And they're finding that perhaps it's impossible to ever have what they had before.

But they're together again. That's what matters in the end, John tells himself. He has Anna back with him. And if she's hesitant and quiet, then it's better than not having her at all, living separated by thick bricks and mortar as well as the self-assembled chains. And even if it shreds his heart that sometimes she wakes screaming, she doesn't have to pick up the pieces alone. Not anymore. In those moments, when she's calm enough to permit it, he holds her close, keeping his grasp as delicate as silk. A direct contrast to hers, a hold so tight that it's like iron, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He treasures it.

They weep. But they weep together, as husband and wife.

He comes across her in their room a month after she's moved back into the cottage. She's standing by the window, palm pressed to the glass, staring sightlessly beyond their surroundings as if they're not there at all.

Not wanting to startle her, John calls her name softly. She stirs, turning her head. She won't look him in the eye, keeping her gaze slightly lowered.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

It's a foolish question, he realises it as soon as the words leave his lips. And Anna pounces on them ferociously, like a lioness cornered by the hunter.

"What do you think?" she snaps. "Are you honestly asking me that question? After this constant questioning from everyone? _After what he did to me?_ "

The silence is resounding. It stretches on and on and on.

In these moments, John always flounders, the self-loathing rising to the surface like an unsurmountable wave, crashing over him and drowning him. It's Anna who has suffered, but as she stands there, small and hunched over, he is reminded once more of the way that he failed her, and he hates himself anew.

"You're right," he says softly. "It was a stupid question. I'm sorry."

But Anna wilts now, her thin shoulders slumping forward and her gaze dropping further. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't speak to you like that. None of this is your fault."

All of it is his fault, but he keeps his mouth closed. He cannot project his guilt onto her. She needs his support, not more of his moping. So he pulls himself together, forcing a smile that doesn't fit on to his face. He takes a tentative step forward, reaches out and ghosts his fingertips against hers. She's grown used to contact from him again, as long as he keeps his touch gentle and doesn't take her by surprise. It kills him inside to see her flinch away from him, so he tries not to initiate it too often, even if there's nothing he'd like more than to pull her into his arms and never let her go.

"Never apologise to me, love," he whispers. "Never. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But I do, don't I?" she says, agonised. "None of this would have happened if it wasn't for me. If I hadn't put aside your objections because I thought you were being silly and jealous, we wouldn't be standing like this now. We would have still been happy."

The notion that they _aren't_ happy now slices through the tender muscle of his heart, tearing it in two.

"I _am_ happy," he says forcefully. "Any moment that I get to spend with you makes me happy."

She barks out a bite of laughter that is cynical and uncharacteristic. "You don't have to lie to me, John. I see you, you know. I see everything now. I know how to read people. You put on a front for me, but it's not there at night. When you think I'm asleep you lie next to me as stiff as a board, and I can _hear_ the things going round in your head. And none of those things are happy ones, so don't you dare lie to me and tell me that you're happy. _I'm_ not happy."

With a sinking heart, John realises that this is going to be one of the bad nights. One of the nights where the very air between them is poisoned. They are still taking baby steps in the right direction, but it hurts to tumble back to the ground.

Still, the only thing they can do is stumble back to their feet, dust the gravel from their knees, and try to clamber back to where they were before. As long as they take every step together, John hopes that they'll do it. He's determined that they will. They can't let that bastard Green win.

He doesn't need to hear her say the name to know that it was him. He won't push her on the subject, not anymore, not when she is so fragile and frightened, but her every move screams the truth. It was Green, who slipped from the party and violated his beautiful Anna in the most brutal and violent of fashions.

It makes him hate himself even more that he hadn't been there to stop him, to protect her. Every night in his dreams he relives that evening. Sometimes he gets there in time, and smashes the bastard's skull into a bloody pulp against the concrete floor, and the blood sings in his veins, and he feels triumphant, until he sees Anna's horrified face, until she shies away from him. Then he feels like a monster.

Other times he doesn't reach her and her screams reverberate in his head until he wishes that his eardrums would burst.

He isn't sure which dreams are worse.

He forces himself back into the presence. He can taste sour revulsion in his mouth and tries to push past it.

"I'm not lying to you," he says softly. "I mean what I say. I was in a state of real misery before I…before I found out what had happened. This hasn't been easy. Of course it hasn't. But compared to how I felt before, I feel much better. We have difficult days, but you're here with me. That's the only thing that will ever matter to me, I promise. As long as I have you by my side, I am happy."

"But you don't have me," she replies, agonised, her gaze on the floor, and he feels his heart cracking anew for her.

"What do you mean?" he asks carefully. It won't do to let her see his panic and feel guilty over it. He has to be strong, inscrutable. Even if it eats at his insides like a cancer. It's better him than her.

She shakes her head, her hands meeting at her belly. She's playing with her wedding ring, spinning it round and round on her finger. It's a quirk that he's noticed several times before. He isn't sure what it makes him feel.

" _I_ don't even feel like I'm me anymore," she says at length, the words biting and sharp, like chips of ice. Her eyes are dry. Frighteningly clear.

"One day you will," John says forcefully. He hopes to high heaven she will. He's seen trauma before. Gone through a different sort himself. The thing he has learned about the human spirit is that it has a deeply integrated sense of survival, sense of healing, even if there are times when a person doesn't want that.

Anna shakes her head. "But if I don't feel like the same person anymore, how can you think I am?" And then she says the words that shatter his heart. "How can you still say that you love me when I'm not the Anna you fell in love with?"

In a trice, John crosses the room to her side. He doesn't dare reach out to touch her, turning to the window instead, staring out at the darkness.

"Perhaps you're not the same Anna that I fell in love with," he said softly. "But life changes every single one of us. I was a different man after the war. And then I became a different man when I moved up here. I became a different man in many people's eyes when I was accused of murder. You could have believed that if you wanted. But you didn't, did you?"

"Of course not," she protests. "Because I knew you weren't that man."

"But I was still changed," he says. "And you loved me anyway. So why do you think it would be any different for me?"

She's silent. Now he risks reaching out, brushing his fingers over her sallow cheeks.

"It isn't any difference at all," he whispers. "Perhaps you're not the same Anna I married. That doesn't mean that you're a worse version of yourself. I fell in love with your soul, Anna. Not just your surface. Not just for your good days. I fell in love with every part of you. And if you're right, and you never become the person you once were…well, I will love this new version of you just the same as any other. Because no matter what, you're still _my_ Anna, and nothing on earth could make me change my opinion of you."

He has faith that she'll find herself again. But if, right now, she can't see that for herself, then he will do whatever it takes to make her believe in him, as she did for him once before. He will be her rock while she finds herself. She is the strongest woman he knows. The strongest woman to ever walk the planet. She will endure.

Although she still won't quite meet his gaze, some of the fire has gone out of her. She's softer around the edges now. He chances reaching out to touch her wrist.

"I love you, Anna," he says, letting every emotion he feels spill out into his voice.

For a moment, Anna's lip wobbles. Tears well. Spill. He's desperate to reach out and brush them away, but he doesn't quite dare. Not without her permission.

Anna doesn't give him that permission. She gives him something even more precious. With a sniff, she slips closer to him and wraps her arms tight around him, pressing her forehead against his chest. Tentatively, he brings a hand up to press against her back. By contrast, her grip on him is steel, as if she fears that he'll disappear if she lets him go. He brushes his lips against her hair.

"I'm here, Anna," he whispers. "I'll always be here. I promise."

He holds her in the moonlight, willing them to make it through the darkness.

* * *

' _She loved him because he had brought her back to life. She had been like a caterpillar in a cocoon, and he had drawn her out and shown her that she was a butterfly.' – Ken Follett_

In the grey morning light, Anna watches her husband sleep. She'd woken quite suddenly, but, for the first time in quite some time, not from a nightmare. Even so, with the August light filtering into the room, she knows that she won't be able to get back to sleep.

So she watches John.

As the months have passed, she has had to find a way to love herself anew, to think on herself kindly.

She has never had that trouble with John. Through all of this horror and brutality, she has never stopped loving him. Pushing him away in the beginning was a loathsome, necessary evil to protect him, but she has never been able to resist him. He is both her biggest strength and her greatest weakness. When he had sought her out and confessed that he knew the truth, as angry and anguished as she had been at the time, the overriding feeling once that had worn off was relief. Relief that she didn't have to lie to him about everything. And there was relief for what they shared. Relief and gratitude that he still touched her with such tenderness, no judgement in his gaze.

He has been her safe port in the raging storm since that night he had come to her in the boot room. It has been far from easy, but he has been there for her unwaveringly, taking every hit of her temper without a word, drying her tears with such gentleness, never allowing his stoic expression to flicker if she flinched away from him. She hated herself in those moments, disgusted with herself that she couldn't always bear John touching her, even when she knew that he would never do anything to hurt her, knowing that in turn it had to be hurting him, but he only waited patiently for her to come to him.

And now there can be a further degree of relaxation, because Mr. Green is dead. He still haunts her memories, but he will never be able to physically harm her again. And although John is still being evasive about what he'd done in York, and why he had even gone there in the first place, the police don't seem to believe that there had been any foul play in Mr. Green's death. A tragic accident, they said. Anna doesn't think it tragic at all, but it means that some of the nightmare is over for good. Not all of it. Never all of it. But enough of it that she can tentatively look to the future. She isn't quite sure what it looks like yet. But the clouds are clearing; on her better days, she glimpses the blue skies of possibilities. For both of their sakes, she is determined to climb higher than the grey mist.

John has been such a big part of her recovery. At one time, in the blackest of moments, she had been sure that there was no way through the toxic miasma of guilt and hatred that had clung to her, that had made her feel filthy and useless. John had never once wavered. He had never once shied away from her, never once made her feel as if he silently agreed with what she had believed to be true. Instead, he had gently rebuffed all of her self-loathing, had worked so hard to make her see that she was not dirty and unlovable. At times, she had been unable to recognise the look in his eyes for what it was—pure, untainted love—but now her vision is clearer. She still can't always quite believe it, but those whispering voices in her head do not quite have the same strong grip as they had before. She is able to distinguish between distorted fiction and reality. If she pauses and counts to ten, she has some semblance of control over the demons that murmur that John is just acting, that he is just staying with her because he is being noble.

He has never pressed her for more than she is able to give. He has never once huffed or sighed, or made her feel inadequate. She has done that more than enough by herself. Instead, he has shown her infinite gentleness. He has acquiesced to her every command. In the beginning, he had never instigated any kind of physical contact between them. He had even offered to sleep in the spare bedroom so that she wouldn't constantly be on edge, afraid if he got too close to her in his sleep.

Strangely, his presence beside her in bed had been one of the only comforts for months. Even if she had woken drenched in sweat, a scream caught in her throat, his large bulk had been a safety, not a danger. Even if she hadn't been able to bear him touching her, she had clung to him like her life support, had buried her face in his pyjama top and breathed in the scent that was so indelibly him. Gradually, as time had passed, she had found that she was flinching away from him less often, that she yearned for the simple pleasure of an innocent touch from him without him governing everything he did around her. It had been difficult to articulate what she needed from him, for a part of her had tried to tell her that she had no business making demands of him, but over a series of weeks she had conveyed that she was ready to try.

And so they had. Slight brushes here and there. Nothing that could alarm her. Now, in the warm August morning, Anna remembers how he had reached for her hand that first time. His own had been shaking so much, as if he was afraid that the barest of touches would make her shatter beneath him. And a thrill of fear _had_ gone through her stomach, but it wasn't fear of him. She had been so afraid that she would hurt him, that she would be unable to control her reaction to him and would flinch away, breaking his heart anew. He would take it, she'd known that. But she had hurt him enough.

But she hadn't. She had watched his fingers encircle hers and had wanted to cry at how familiar it had all felt. The rough fingertips were a balm against her, and she had brought his hand to her mouth, kissing each knuckle with all the tenderness she could muster.

Touching her hand had led to more deliberate touches elsewhere, too. Never anything beyond the innocent, but Anna has grown used to the way that he sometimes drapes his arm over her shoulder and presses a tender kiss to her temple. It makes her feel human. Gives her the confidence that they can overcome all obstacles placed in their way.

They have yet to move on to other intimacies. Right now, she can't bear to be held by him in bed. Experience has taught them both that if she wakes from a nightmare and his arm is around her, she panics and lashes out, still caught in that temporal plane, still there with _him_.

They've found a way around it. These days, John lays flat on his back, and she curls herself around his left side, pressing her ear over his heart, wrapping her arm around his waist and relaxing into the broad press of him beneath her. It's not the same, but it's a new memory. A good memory. She treasures it.

She treasures everything about him. He is a gentle giant. He looks so innocent and peaceful in slumber, like the cares of the world are truly lifted from his shoulders. She resolves to try her best to lift them for good, for both of their sakes. Progress is all she can hope for, and she'll pursue it for their love. Their bond is too dear and too rare not to fight for with every fibre of her being.

It's been a long time since she last just looked at him without anything interrupting her. It's been a long time since she has last let herself look upon him totally unguarded, without something niggling in the back of her head, telling her that she doesn't have the right to do it anymore. The lines are gone from his face, the only traces left the faint lines around his eyes. His hair is mussed from the way that he'd turned into his pillow, only adding to the boyish air. She'd forgotten what a comforting face he has, how open and easy to trust it is. How safe just a look into his eyes can make her feel.

Which is why he _can't_ have been any further south than York that day. And why, in the end, she can overlook any tiny niggling doubts that might live in the back of her head. She trusts him.

Sighing, Anna shakes those thoughts away. The less she dwells on it, the better. There's no sense in marring the waters. John loves her, and she loves him, and that's all that matters. Love.

Very gently, she reaches out to brush her fingers over his wide cheek. It's a feather touch, really, but he stirs anyway, his dark eyes blinking open sleepily.

"Anna?" he says, voice sleep-slurred. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong," she soothes him. It's something they've both had to get used to, and she hates it. Before, John wouldn't have even thought to ask her if she was all right if he'd woken to her stroking his face. He would have simply enjoyed the moment, as she had always intended. She despises that their lives are still governed by those labels. Before. After. If she could break those words with a hammer, she'd do it in a heartbeat. She wants their life together to know nothing but happiness for the rest of their days. Haven't they suffered enough? Don't they deserve that? She wants to remember what it was like to laugh freely, to share her most intimate secrets with the man she loves beyond reason. Wants to be able to physically share the most intimate part of herself with him too, without feeling fear of disgust or despair.

She wants to be the Anna of old, but there's no going back. Not from this. She can only be a new, different version of herself, and hope that she really is enough to make John happy.

John smiles at her now, relaxing, and Anna feels herself relaxing too. When he looks at her like that, he makes her tentatively believe that they are almost there, despite the desperate scrabbling for purchase on the smooth rock face.

"I love you, you know," she says.

It's quite possibly the biggest smile she has ever seen on his face. It makes the crinkles around his eyes deepen to an adorable level. His eyes dance with the joy of the words. How any woman has ever resisted him is a mystery to her, but she counts herself lucky that no one else at Downton has ever bothered to dig deeper than the surface because it gave her the opportunity to sweep him off his feet. She knows that if she mentioned that to him, he'd tell her that there was never any competition whatsoever, that his eyes were always only for her. She knows that it would be the truth.

"I love you too, my darling," he whispers.

Overcome, Anna strokes her thumb over his cheek, before moving to cup the back of his thick neck with her palm. His eyes are dark as he stares up at her, and they seem to be growing in her vision.

It happens without her even realising it. One moment, she is staring down at him. The next, her eyes slide closed.

And she feels the soft, hesitant press of his mouth beneath hers.

It lasts barely a second before he pulls away sharply.

"What was that?" he says.

Disconcerted, she bites at her lip. Embarrassingly, tears prickle at her eyes. Angry with herself, she turns her head away. Her voice is inordinately biting when it comes out. "What do you think?" Whatever she'd hoped to achieve is gone in the sharpeness of her tone, in the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that jeers at her and tells her that she's failed all over again.

John shifts away with her. "I don't know." He sounds uncomfortable. Her vision blurs.

"I kissed you," she says, and the tremor in her voice is unmistakable. Embarrassing.

John's voice softens too. "I know that. I just…"

"You don't want me to?" she blurts.

He looks taken aback. Rushes to explain himself. "What? No, of course not! That's not it at all! That's the furthest thing from the truth, I swear to you, Anna. I just…I don't want you to put yourself into a situation that you're not really comfortable with."

"I'm not," she protests.

"I don't want you to simply say that out of a fear that I might grow disinterested or be angry that you're taking so long to come back to me."

"It's been months."

"After a trauma like that, it can take women years. Sometimes never."

She shivers in horror at the thought of never wanting to touch John in that manner again. That can't come to pass. It would be letting the monster win. It would completely destroy their lives. She knows that the physical side of a relationship isn't all there is. She and John have gone years without it. Their bond is based on strong friendship and mutual trust. That has always been more important than anything else. But she can't deny that passion and desire is an important part of any relationship too. The possibility that she might never feel that way again terrifies her.

It doesn't help when John pulls away, either. Anna knows that he only does that out of the pure love and great respect that he has for her, but it hurts all the same. Sometimes, she can't be protected.

She's learned that one the hard way.

"We have to start somewhere," she says quietly.

"But not to prove something to me. You once told me that you could be patient and bear anything for me. The same rings true in reverse. I will be as patient as you need me to be. And if you never want that again…"

She brushes angry tears from her eyes. "I _do_."

John reaches out and touches her hand. She knows that he means for it to be soothing, but it's only a further symbol of the distance between them. "And don't mistake me, because God knows I want it too. But the last thing I ever want is for you to feel pressured. Not after what you've been through. A husband should care about the needs of his wife far more than he cares about his own. It's not love otherwise. It's simply pure selfishness. I've lived long enough to have seen it too many times over."

Anna looks down upon him. Her big, strong, gentle husband. She ought to feel appreciative that he cares so much for her needs when any other man would have called her a slut, denounced her, tossed her aside so that she had to live out her shame alone for the rest of her days. She _is_ grateful to him, more grateful than she'll ever be able to express. He's saved her life, even if he doesn't know it.

So is she being selfish now, for wanting more from him?

But no. She wants to take a step forward, and she needs John right by her side. She needs him right with her, to catch her if she stumbles and to catch him in return.

Because this works both ways. It had taken her a long time to see beyond the scope of her own agony, and she knows that John believes that her agony is the only thing of importance, but that isn't the case. The assault hasn't just happened to her. Physically, of course. Mentally, it tortures them both. She knows that John relives his own nightmares of that awful night over and over again in much the same way that she does. She's not been in a fit state to provide it before, but she knows that he needs reassurance in return. With actions as well as with words. She'd thought that this was the perfect way of providing that.

Perhaps he just needs her to prove that she's as assertive and sure as she feels.

Slowly, she reaches out to touch his face.

"I want to try again," she whispers. "I want to start living in the light instead of always in the shadows. I want to try and build up those good memories that I talked about before. If I never try, we'll never know. I trust you and I love you. That should be enough to get us to where we need to be."

For a moment, John stares at her. She feels her heartbeat in her head, pulsing. Afraid of what he'll say. Afraid of what she'll do if he rejects her again.

But he doesn't.

Almost imperceptibly, he nods. She feels a weight lift.

"You agree with me?" she says.

"I don't want to hold you back in any way. If you want to try, then we have to try." His voice comes out choked. "It's like you said. I trust you, and I love you. I have to trust you to know what your own limits are, and trust you to guide me in this."

More tears well, but this time for an entirely different reason. "Thank you."

"You have nothing to thank me for. Just promise me that you'll tell me if you need space or if you need me to do something differently."

"I promise."

At that, his body relaxes. Anna takes the opportunity to shuffle closer to him, tucking herself against his side as she moves her right hand to his face. She maps his features with her fingers, exploring the texture of his stubble against her fingertips, weaving strands of his hair through her fingers, stroking the shell of his ear. He draws breath, shuddering, eyes half-lidding, and she takes it as her opportunity to take things one step further.

Gathering all of her courage, she stretches up to press her mouth to his.

She feels his breath catch. For a moment, there is the barest of contact between them, lighter than the feathery brush of a butterfly's wings against skin. Anna closes her eyes, hardly daring to move in case it breaks the spell.

And then, tentatively, he moves his mouth against hers.

Even then, the pressure is so light that it's almost dream-like. Anna mirrors his movements, following the pace of his mouth as they relearn each other. It's shy, and clumsy, much like a young lovers' first kiss, and it makes her want to weep anew for the sweet innocence of it all.

For the relief that she isn't jolting away from him, overcome with bitter memories.

They kiss like that for a little while, just chaste brushes. Anna relishes the rediscovery of John's soft mouth, and the way that he cups the side of her face just so, so gentle that it almost hurts. She keeps her eyes closed so she can focus on the moment, on the reassuring bulk of his body against hers.

Things are far from fixed. But this is the right path. The path she knows that they can travel together.

Presently, she pulls away from him, breathing in the warm scent of his skin for a moment before opening her eyes. She finds John's on her, shining with overwhelming love.

"That was…nice," he says.

She giggles tremulously, her heart swelling in her chest. Relief and optimism coil within her, almost overwhelming. "Yes, it was."

"It was more than nice," he whispers.

"Yes, it was," she echoes, and tucks herself against him so she can hide the sudden well of emotion that she knows will be rushing across her face. John's arm comes up to hold her to him instantly, and he presses his cheek to the crown of her head. She feels a wetness there, but she doesn't say anything because she's crying too, silent tears absorbed by his pyjama top.

Happy tears.

Things are still far from perfect. But with the way things are, it' a vast improvement. John has made her feel worthy again, and that is no mean feat. She's not quite transformed, but a start is better than nothing.

For now, she enjoys what it feels like to be pressed against her husband once more without the feelings of guilt and anxiety.

For now, she enjoys what it's like to return home.

* * *

' _When her mouth found mine I disassembled. Not exploded like a bomb or anything, but came apart. A few pieces at a time. They floated away, went into a kind of orbit. A splintering galaxy. An extravagant slow motion annihilation. The only centre was her mouth, her hair. It was her. – Peter Heller, The Dog Stars_

The cool autumn nights are melting away into a bitter winter. At Downton, the wind whistles through the cracks and rattles the windows. The corridors are like passages of ice. The only warmth to be found is in the kitchen, where the oven and the constant bustling ensures that the workers are kept as frazzled as ever, and the roaring fire that constantly crackles in the servants' hall. It's a continuous fight to get nearest to it, and often they are all found huddled as close together as possible to soak up some of its warmth, hot cups of tea clutched in their cold hands.

The walks home are bitter, and threaten to become treacherous. Frost litters the ground, crunching underfoot. Breath crystallises in the air. Even through the thick layers he wears, John can't help shivering violently, the cold gnawing in his very bones. With her slight form, Anna suffers even worse, for she doesn't have the same thick padding that he does. She's lucky that she doesn't have a gammy leg like him. Most nights find him gritting his teeth against the pain in his knee, the agony almost unbearable. Anna tries to help, bringing him warm compresses, but it rarely works for long. Already he longs for the warmer weather.

At least when they are in the cottage they are warm. Anna thaws their bed with the bed warmer nightly to get the sheets toasty for them, and when they have the time to indulge in it, they build a roaring fire of their own in the front room. They snuggle there together, enjoying the warmth washing over them, the flickering of the shadows against the walls. They cuddle together under the sheets, leeching heat from each other. John is beyond grateful for that.

Tonight is one such night. The New Year has brought another round of unforgiving weather, and all day it has been impossible to shake the cold from the bones. It is a relief to shut the door on the dark night and to scurry upstairs to their little bedroom. Anna begins the usual nightly routine at once, heating the bed warmer so that it can be slipped in to warm the sheets for them whilst they change. When they are finally ready to slip under the quilt, it is heavenly.

John relaxes as the heat melts into his knee, loosening the tendons. It is still painful, but there is something glorious about the way that the heat sinks into it, helping if only for the moment. Things are only made better by Anna's presence at his left side, a warm, comforting weight against him. They've come so far in the ten months since that unspeakable night. At one time, John had wondered if it would ever be possible to hold his wife again. There had been nights when he was afraid to touch her, frightened that it would spark off traumatic memories for her. The last thing he ever wants to do is cause her more pain and fear.

Thankfully, his fears haven't been realised. Bit by bit, they've found their way back to each other. First with Anna holding _him_ , then to her lying across him, permitting him to touch her back, and then, finally, to their favourite position, with him curled around her body, arm draped across her waist and nose buried in her hair. His heart swells every time she instigates it, a victory for the both of them.

After a moment of silence, Anna sighs, squeezing him lightly in the circle of her arms.

"This is the best part of the day," she murmurs. "Just being here with you. Having no responsibilities and no pressure to be anywhere else. There's nothing nicer than lying here with you and listening to the quiet."

John hums his agreement. "I know." It's the truth. He would trade anything if it meant that he could have more moments like this with her, just the two of them alone in the world with nothing else to think about.

"I like being able to hear myself think," Anna muses.

"Makes a change from Jimmy's constant peacocking, doesn't it?" John snorts. The young lad is growing more precocious by the day. He can't bring himself to like him very much, especially not after his treatment of Ivy. The young kitchen maid has been very naïve indeed, but there is no excusing Jimmy's behaviour—though he is sure that plenty of men would.

"There's something else I like about the quiet too," says Anna. He turns his head slightly, frowning. He can't see her face, not in the current position that they're in, but he can tell that she's looking beyond him. Waiting.

"What's that, then?" he prompts.

Slowly, she turns her head. In the intimate lighting brought by the oil lamp burning on her bedside table, he can see the glittering of her eyes, shining with things he daren't name. Sacred, beautiful things that he's been afraid of losing over the past months.

"Being with you," she says.

"That's silly," he tries. "You can be with me any time you like."

"Not at the big house. Not when there are other people around. I don't think they'd approve."

"Approve of what?"

"Of what I want," she confesses.

His heart beats painfully in his chest. "What's that?"

"To kiss you when I feel the urge. Mr. Carson doesn't even approve of me touching your hand."

He feels his cheeks heating at the implication. Anna is blossoming again, not all at once like a summer bloom, but bit by bit, putting down strong roots, peeping out shyly as the sun touches her. And although she professes to feeling weak, her sturdiness is proved with every day that passes, with every day that she continues to fight and gains a new victory.

Bit by bit, they _are_ winning. She doesn't flinch away from him anymore. She is happy to let him instigate contact, although _he_ is the one shy about taking her up on the offer, frightened of pressuring her into something she doesn't want.

She kisses him again. When she does, he can almost forget.

They'd stated off shy little pecks, and fleeting. Sometimes, he'd even thought he'd imagined it all, the contact so light. But she's grown bolder, kisses him with less hesitancy now, makes him feel safe.

Loved.

He hopes he makes her feel the same.

Lost for any real words, he says, "I see."

Giggling at his fluster, she pushes herself up on her elbows, meeting his eyes fully this time. The tentative confidence takes his breath away. "But there's no one here now, is there?"

"No," he manages.

"Which means I can kiss you," she says, voice low and husky. It makes his skin tingle, and he tries to suppress it.

"Only if you want to," he says.

"I do want to, Mr. Bates. Very much."

She's coming closer. Filling his vision. The seductive scent of her wafts into his senses, making him flush all over. He should clarify with her again, ensure that it is what he wants—

But then her mouth is on his, and his brain fuzzes over. Soft, sweet lips. Sure fingers at the nape of his neck. Strong body over his. Moving over him as her tongue slips inside.

Straddling him.

His eyes shoot open, and he pulls away sharply. In the low lighting, he can see her urgent frown.

"What is it?" she asks.

His heart pounds anew, both with fear and shame. "What are you doing?"

"Kissing you. I thought that was obvious."

"But you—" She's _straddling_ him. She hasn't done that since that terrible March night. Before, their kisses have been constrained. They've done nothing more than lie there, touching nowhere more sensitive than each other's arms or hands or faces. Dimly, as though from outside his body, he is aware of a dull, needful throbbing, and is swallowed by more self-hatred. He has allowed his body to betray him. He had promised both himself and her, silently, that he would never allow himself to feel desire for her unless she was ready. And if that day never came, then he would deny himself forever.

But he has broken that promise. He is weak. Unworthy.

Anna touches his face.

"I'm all right," she whispers. "I'm all right."

He shakes his head, floundering. She palms his cheek fully, forces him to look at her.

"I'm all right," she repeats, clearly.

John grits his teeth and reminds himself of what has brought them to this. It cools the fire inside him immediately. "I don't want you telling yourself that to appease me. I should be able to control myself better. I'm so sorry."

Her eyes flash. "Don't you dare apologise to me. I will not have my husband apologising for something natural and pure. Don't you know what it means to me that I can still affect you? That your body doesn't see me as soiled goods?"

"I would never—" he protests, but she cuts him off.

"I know what you say. Your words are what have kept me strong over these months. I've needed them to believe in. But I also need more than that now. I need the physical proof that your words are more than just platitudes."

"I've never just given you platitudes," John says, alarmed, but she cuts him off again.

"I _know_. And I know you feel like you need to hide yourself from me so that I don't push myself into something I don't want. I can't express how much that means to me and how much I love you for it. Most men would demand their right, no matter what."

The thought is horrifying. How any man could want to force his wife to satisfy disgusting baser urges instead of providing safety and comfort after such an ordeal is beyond anything he can comprehend.

She continues to look him steadily in the eye. "But things are changing."

"What do you mean?"

There's a waver in her voice, but her gaze remains strong and true. "You have been a true godsend to me over these last months. You have helped me to keep focused on the truth instead of being drowned out by the lies. I felt broken, but you've helped to build me up strong. Nothing is the same as before, but you've helped me to realise that it doesn't mean I can't find happiness. _You_ are my happiness. I'm not saying that I'm ready for…" Here, her voice tails off.

"Which I would never push you for," John says quickly.

She only ignores him. "But I am ready for _something_. I'm ready to feel. I'm ready to _try_."

The words are dizzying. Terrifying.

The truth. It's plan to see on her face.

He should stop her. "You don't need to—"

"No, I don't need to. I _want_ to. Please, John."

It's what does it. Just the sound of his name falling from her lips in that beautiful Yorkshire lilt, his salvation. His saviour, her strength and wilfulness so very beautiful to him. He gives a short, terse nod.

She beams.

It isn't easy, not at first. It's been so long since he has last allowed himself to feel anything molten hot and needful. It's been a long time since he last allowed himself to be lost in desire. At first, he is too tense, clumsy in his responses.

Anna is perfection. So patient with him. Soft, tender, loving. She kisses him shyly, gradually growing into what she wants, exploring his mouth with an innocent curiosity that makes him ache. He tries to squirm away from her, still uncomfortable with the way his body responds so readily to hers, but she holds him in place, tentatively brushes against him with an eagerness that bring tears to his eyes.

For a long time, they do nothing more than kiss, until he feels his body relax—all apart from one place. That seems to please her, if the way her lips curve over his is any indication. He allows his hands to span her back just gently, so lightly he wonders if she even feels it at all. It doesn't seem to matter. She is lost in a moment all of her own, judging from the hitch in her breath and the way she coils against him.

Presently, things move on. Anna pulls away from him enough to slip her hands between them, fingers clumsy against the buttons on his pyjamas. The blood thrums in his ears as her fingers brush against his skin, the material whispering against him sensually. Under her dark gaze, he shrugs off the shirt, leaving himself completely exposed to the room's biting cold.

"You're beautiful," Anna whispers.

He should be the one saying that to her. He swallows his self-reproach and tries to focus on the moment, attempting to silence the disquiet that still lives in his mind like a weed.

He can't stop himself from flinching when her fingers travel down to the waistband on his pyjama bottoms. She pulls up sharp, wide-eyed. He forces himself to breathe and rationalise. If he keeps questioning her, it will only undermine her self-confidence. He has to be sensitive.

"If you need to stop at any point, please don't hesitate," he whispers. "Nothing could leave me disappointed."

Anna nods, mouth twisting with determination. "Nothing will make me stop. I told you: I want you."

And he has to trust in her. Breath stutters from him as she leans in to kiss him again, capturing his mouth fully beneath hers, full lips divine, soft. She pulls his bottoms down just a little, but doesn't venture to touch him there, instead focusing her attention on the rest of him. After so long without her intimate touch, every inch of him feels alive to the slightest brush, heightening the pleasure in every way. He tries not to move, to let her explore him at her own pace. Reminds himself that he mustn't do anything that might frighten her. He has to control every baser urge that he might have. There can be no bucking up against her in despair. There can be no grabbing for her hand, forcing her to touch him where he desperately craves her. She needs this. Needs to reclaim herself. Needs to prove to herself that she can do this.

Difficult as it is, he buries his head in her neck and squeezes his eyes tightly closed, letting her have these explorations.

And then she pauses. He forces his eyes open.

She's hovering right over the place where he needs her. Her eyes burn through the darkness. He meets her gaze, half-frightened of what he might see there.

There's nothing but fire there, a kindling desire.

"I want you," she says yet again, and there is pure exhilaration in her tone. Joyful disbelief. He almost weeps for it. Instead, he presses his palms flat to the mattress, determined that he will not touch her. Not until she gives him permission.

A maxim that becomes harder to bear as she moves in close to shower his face in kisses.

And takes him in her hand.

John almost jolts off the bed at that despite what he'd told himself, a yelp dying on his lips. His fingers claw at the bed sheets, his jaw clenching.

It feels far, far too good.

A satisfied sound rumbles through Anna's throat, and she palms him more firmly, exploring him with light, trembling touches that leave him a melting mess. Pleasure alights him, tickling every nerve end he possesses, and he can hardly bear it. She finds her rhythm, the pattern so achingly familiar and erotic to him, and the fire rips through him.

It's far, far too much to bear.

In a matter of moments, it's over, and he wilts into the mattress, panting hard, heart whooshing along like a creaky steam train. He's quite sure that he won't be able to move again for quite some time; he feels like he's melted into the mattress. It is the most blissful feeling he's had in quite some time, made all the sharper with the knowledge that it is Anna's intimate touch that has brought him to this state.

She's almost giddy as she looks down upon him. The smile upon her face is a proud, delighted one, and it almost hurts his heart to look at.

"Was that all right?" she asks.

"It was better than all right," he whispers, hoping she does understand just how much he did like it.

She ducks her head shyly. "I'm glad. I enjoyed it too."

"Good," he manages. Anna lowers herself back to the mattress beside him. He lifts a trembling arm so she can snuggle into him, pressing a fierce kiss to her temple. For a moment, they lie there quietly. Then Anna swallows hard. Once more, she will not look up at him.

"I, um…I…" she stutters, and it hits him with clarity.

"Oh," he says. _"Oh."_

Anna chews at her lip, and he shifts so that he can see her properly, hesitantly reaching out to ease it from between her teeth. He waits until she glances up at him, shy and embarrassed, before speaking.

"May I…?" he asks, and she nods, quick and urgent.

His heart begins to pound at the prospect of what it is to come. Together, they work to get her undergarments out of the way, and with trembling hands Anna rucks up her nightgown too, throwing it somewhere into the darkness of the room and leaving her glowing in the moonlight. The sight of her takes his breath away. It's the first time he's seen her naked since March, and she is even more beautiful than he remembers. He is almost afraid to reach out to touch her, but Anna makes the decision for him, winding shaking fingers through his hair and encouraging his head down to her breast. He sets about his task with restrained enthusiasm, keeping his touches light and soft so as to not frighten her, hoping that enthusiasm will remind her that he loves this, that he loves her.

Presently, he trails a hand down the front of her body, pulling away to breathe, "Is this all right?"

"Yes," she sighs, and her muscles quiver beneath him as he finally slides his hand to her most intimate place.

He's sure his heart is going to burst. The blood pounds through his head, so loud. He barely remembers what it is to breathe.

He finds her slick to the touch, and it is almost the end of him. Anna sighs and gasps, shy little sounds that grow in ardour and confidence as he relearns the ways that she had always loved to be touched, careful to ensure that his touch remains gentle. He's immeasurably glad that he found his pleasure first, for he is not sure what he would have done otherwise as Anna's body undulates against his own, her nails digging into him in her passion. Her ragged whimpers are part of the sweetest symphony he has ever heard, and he varies the way he touches her, sometimes a light, teasing touch to the top of her sex, sometimes slipping a finger inside to just gently caress her, directing the pitch of her sounds like a conductor. He can't look away from her face. Her eyes have slipped closed, her mouth hangs open. Under the cloak of darkness he cannot see it, but he knows her cheeks have flushed pink in her pleasure.

It doesn't take long for her, either. There's a teasing build-up, that perfect moment right before the end where her whole body tenses up and she is caught up in the completely overwhelming sensations that well up inside her. It is the moment of perfect agony that he always wishes could last longer than the split-second that it does before he topples right over the edge into unending pleasure; he hopes that she is getting the same pleasure from it now, as she arches her back and throws back her head, crying out into the humid darkness.

In the aftermath, her harsh pants for breath fill the air. John nuzzles against her, keeping his touches light as he guides her through the aftershocks while she clings to him with iron strength. Eventually, she whimpers for him to stop, and he does so immediately, letting her catch her breath. Waiting in breathless anticipation, he is pleased when she reaches up to kiss him with quiet enthusiasm, burrowing as close as she can to him. He wraps his arms around her, his skin sparking when it brushes against hers, thanking God for her presence in his life, her strength, her grace, her courage. After a time, she pulls away from him, running her nose almost shyly down his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"You have nothing to thank me for."

"I have everything to thank you for," she replies. "That was…"

She doesn't seem to have the words, but he understands. They've shared a magical moment in time, a moment that he hadn't been sure they'd ever share again. It is yet another step in the direction of reclaiming the life that they'd once had. It means the world to him, and he can see that it means the same to her. Tears of joy well inexplicably, and he buries his head against her hair, breathing in the scent of her, the musk of sweat on the both of them.

The smell of victory.

* * *

' _Every woman deserves a man who writes poems on her body with his lips. And every man deserves a woman who craves his touch.' – Mardy Bryant_

As the winter melts into spring, hope is born once again. They take things slowly, day by day, but there can be no denying that there is sweet progress. Anna finds herself growing in confidence with every day that passes, blossoming with the return of the physical intimacy that she has mourned for so long. She's almost as eager as she was at the beginning, on their wedding night, when John gave her a taste of what it was like. Her body is relearning what it is like to give and receive pleasure, and the fact that her body is finally doing what she wants it to makes her want to weep with joy. John is ever the gentleman, which only aids her confidence further. He never pushes her for more than she feels able to give, though what she feels like she _can't_ give is growing smaller by the day. They spend their nights lost in each other, exploring each other anew, building back up to the main event. With every night that passes, Anna knows that she is one step closer to accepting John's body fully once more. The knowledge makes her belly squirm, both in anticipation and nerves.

Much like it did in the hours building up to their wedding night. Somehow, this is like losing her virginity all over again.

It comes to a head one night in early February, when the first pretty spring blooms are spotted in Downton's grounds. The air is sweet and cold and tastes of hope, and Anna feels more alive than she has done in eleven months. She slips her hand into John's as they amble down the country road, and he turns to her, smiling. Her heart swells in her chest at the look on his face. God, how she loves this man. How she will be forever indebted for the way that he has nurtured her like a delicate bloom, how he has remained so loyal to her when most other men would have abandoned her without looking back. His patience and kindness are two of the things that have driven her forward.

He means more to her than she could possibly say. Tonight, she hopes to truly show him.

When they arrive home, John shrugs off his coat.

"Shall I make us a fire?" he asks.

"No," says Anna. Beneath her breast, her heart flutters. She hopes that her tone isn't giving too much away. She wants to surprise him.

She thinks she's got away with it; he only nods at her. "Are we heading to bed?"

"Yes," she says, but it's not for sleep. Her blood hums. She has been reborn. She heads for the stairs and he follows her. Once there, she heads for the curtains and draws them decisively, shutting out the world. Tonight, they're the only two who exist.

She hears John fumbling with the oil lamp behind her, and it flares into life. She turns to him, framed in the darkness. She's always loved the way he looks when he is bathed in shadows. They enhance the bulk of him, give him an even greater sense of presence. Nothing could ever make her feel safer.

"I'm exhausted," John announces. She listens to the rustle of his clothing as he starts to undress.

"Are you?" she asks, moving her hands to her own clothes, sighing in relief as she loosens her corset. Sitting herself down on the edge of the bed, she rubs her fingers over her ribs, chasing away the pains of the day.

"Are you not?" he returns, scrubbing a hand down his face.

"Not as tired as I thought I might be," she says.

"I'm sorry that I'm not going to be very good company tonight."

"Nonsense. Though are you sure that there's nothing I can do to help you stay awake?"

"I don't think so, no. I'm sorry to be a disappointment."

"Don't be silly. You could never be a disappointment to me."

"I can't help but feel guilty, though."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Well it sounds as if you had something planned."

"I did," she says. "And I have faith that you might not be quite so tired when you hear my suggestion."

"I'm not quite sure I understand."

She looks at him from under her lashes, and leans back on the bed, hoping that she has made her message clear.

His breath catches.

Success.

"What—are you—" He's floundering, his voice strained. She takes pity on him.

"Yes."

Hardly dares give any more weight to it than that for fear of breaking whatever courage has taken over her.

For long moments, John doesn't move. Anna doesn't dare move either, though the expectancy wells up inside her until it is almost overwhelming. She opens her mouth to plead with him to say something, but he beats her to it.

"Christ."

"Don't you want to?" she asks, suddenly afraid. Has she overestimated where they are? He has to be on the same path as her. If he's not ready yet, she can't push him into something that he doesn't want. He has shown unerring faith in her. He deserves no less in return, no matter what it might do to her heart.

She doesn't want to think about that. About the sting of rejection, the feelings of self-worth that she has tried to suppress rising up and reigning supreme once more.

"I want to more than anything," he whispers, and some of the tension diffuses. "But are you sure?"

She ignores the stab of irritation in her gut. It's not his fault. If they were in reversed roles, she would want to know exactly the same. He's only asking because he loves her, because he wants her to feel safe and comfortable. She can't be angry with him for that. It's not fair. "I am. I wouldn't have said anything if I wasn't. We…we'll go slowly."

She has to remember that it's as big to him as it is to her. He's shown her so much self-restraint and respect, and she knows that he feels a lot of responsibility towards her. They're both going to need to seek reassurance in this. Anna desperately needs to feel that she is whole. Unbroken. If she is honest with herself, there's an even greater pressure on John. Because if that was her, in his position, she'd want to know every step of the way that she wasn't hurting him, that what she was doing was bringing him pleasure. Before, he's always been able to read her non-verbal cues. Tonight, she'll have to guide him through it, let him know just how much she likes what he's doing.

"Come to bed, Mr. Bates," she says, her voice trembling. He obeys.

Together, they manage to shuffle up the bed. John settles on his side beside her, and she moves trembling fingers to the remains of his clothes, pulling his undershirt up and over his head so that she can get her hands on his thick, hairy chest. He whimpers as she moves her head to kiss along the expanse of skin, and his hand moves tentatively round her back, rubbing her spine through her shift.

"Take it off," he says. "Please, Anna."

She pulls away from him reluctantly, and he sits up just enough to place his hands either side of her hips.

"Can I?" he asks.

She nods, holding her breath as he slowly draws the material up her body. It's the first time he's undressed her since that night. The knowledge makes her chest ache. They have lost so much time. It's unendingly cruel, that so many simple pleasures were taken from them.

But they've found their way back now.

When her shift is off, Anna moves to settle over him. She has always felt so powerful in this position. Here, she is truly his queen, taking her pleasure from her eager subject and giving it back to him. John is so much bigger than her, so much stronger, but in these moments she is the strongest of all. It gives her a delicious, heady rush. Makes her come alive.

One day soon, she hopes that she'll be able to ease into other ways of making love, like they'd enjoyed before. Because as much as she loves to take control, she'd also loved being wrapped in her husband's strong arms, pressed into the mattress by his delicious weight, loved by him as she stares up into his face, filled with worship. Tonight, she doesn't want that. Because what if being below him reminds her of…of what she went through? That would ruin everything all over again. But like this…like this she thinks she can love her husband like he deserves. Like they both deserve.

Together, they work to get the last articles of their clothes off, and then Anna leans down to kiss him. Slowly. With all of the gentle passion that she can muster, the kind of kiss made to get the blood heated. The feel of his chest hair against her nipples is electric, and she slips her tongue into his mouth, reaching her hand between them to find him. His whole body stiffens as she strokes him, the movement of his mouth against hers becoming more gauche. She smiles against his mouth, relief rising up within her. She can do this. She wants this man with her whole heart. Tonight, she'll have him again. The sheer want of him thrums through her bones, igniting her, and her spare hand slips to the mattress beside them. John has his hands pressed there.

"Touch me," she whispers, pulling out of the kiss.

John's groan is a rumble in the quiet of night, making her whole body quiver in anticipation. She half-expects him to ask if she really wants him to, but he doesn't.

Even so, his hands are impossibly gentle on her. He starts at her thighs, running his fingers just lightly over her, moving round to touch her hips. He takes his time exploring every inch of her, his gaze intense upon her. When he pulls her down so that he can flick his tongue firmly over her nipple, she almost explodes. She is fire made flesh. She writhes against him, the sensations exploding through her. On their journey of rediscovery, he has always kept his ministrations light and careful. He'd kiss his way down her face, down her body, until his mouth found her centre and she saw stars under the talent of his tongue. Now, his touch is more assured. Her breasts tingle with the pressure, with an acute pleasure that comes back with a vengeance. She can't help gasping aloud, one hand flying to the back of his head to keep him pressed against her. His grunt vibrates through her; she's squeezing him too tightly with her other hand. She can't help it. It's all too good. At what point had her breasts become so sensitive? How come she's never realised it before?

Time seems to come to a standstill in these moments. All she can do is whimper and writhe as he explores her with a devotion that ought to be reserved for religion. The breast that isn't covered by his mouth isn't left wanting, explored with roughened fingertips in a way that makes her ache for him. It is almost more than she can bear. There can be no denying what she wants.

Him.

"John," she manages. "John, please."

"Please what, Anna?" he pants. There's a shadow of the old John in there, the John who took great pleasure in teasing her until she couldn't take it anymore. She can't even articulate what she wants, so she grabs at his hand and moves it down to where she aches for him. His intake of breath is sharp, his eyes flying to latch onto hers.

"Please, John," she repeats. This time, he doesn't ask for clarification.

The world shrinks to a series of flashes, white-hot bliss sizzling every nerve ending. Anna writhes atop him, moving against the rhythm of his fingers as he explores her, simply melting. He is meticulous, leaving nowhere left unexplored, and it isn't long before she is coming apart beneath his touch, whimpering his name.

She doesn't even give herself time to recover. Can't, not tonight, not after this. All she can do is hook him into another fierce kiss, adjust her position, and take him inside her. She muffles his long sound of pleasure with her mouth.

And it's better than she ever remembered. There's no time to think. Only to feel. She has been reduced to a series of actions, held together only by the way he makes her feel. The feeling of him inside her is more than she can possibly put into words. Overwhelming to the largest degree. It takes her breath away, brings tears to her eyes, makes time stop.

He's back where he belongs, and nothing has ever felt so right.

So wonderful.

For long, long moments, she can't even move. She's held in place by the sheer pleasure of it all, and the look on John's face. His features are scrunched up, his neck is corded. It looks as if he's trying to hang on to the last vestiges of his control. It's the most arousing sight of all.

"Are-are you all right?" she manages, her tone querulous.

"Y-Yes," he pants, his eyes still screwed up. "Christ, Anna, this feels—"

Beyond anything she has ever felt before. She sits up on his chest, back straight, and closes her eyes. She needs to concentrate on these feelings. Needs to bottle them up to take out at will, to remind herself that she has finally beaten the darkness. She's not stupid. She knows there will be more good and bad days to come. But this is her proof that even through the bad days, she can still win.

The initial sense of fulfilment disappears in a flash, leaving her needing more all over again. Her heart pounds somewhere in the region of her throat as she slowly begins to rock her hips against his, unable to hold back her whimpers. He is thick and full inside her, reaching places inside her that she'd forgotten even existed. She grips onto him tightly as she follows the sparks that fly inside her, his body reassuringly solid beneath her thighs. John's own sounds of gratification are low and ardent, and his hands brush against her waist almost like a question. She knows what he's too frightened to ask.

"Hold me," she requests through a moan, tilting her head back. "Touch me, John."

He's lost then, his hands caressing from her hips to her stomach and back again, trailing fire over her abdomen. In a blind desire she finds herself speeding up, arching into him, chasing the pleasure that is titillating her, right on the very edge of where she almost is. The build-up of pressure inside her is almost more than she can take, the most deliciously overwhelming thing she has felt in almost a year. It creeps up inside her, wrapping her up in a miasma of wanton ecstasy.

John's fingers slip to the place where they are joined, and she is undone.

It's a hot, fierce rush, making every part of her tingle as she rides out the waves, jerking against him erratically. She finds that her gaze is locked onto his, spellbound, and the love and devotion that pours from him hits her right in the middle of the chest. It's beautiful.

Moments later he follows her over the edge, his eyes sliding shut, his hips arching up off the bed to meet the thrust of her own. Aftershocks judder through her like electricity, and for a suspended moment there is nothing beyond this bed and the experience that the two of them have shared.

Moments don't last forever. With a final whimper, Anna slides from his body, no longer able to support herself. She's trembling from head to foot, hot all over. Her head feels light and spacy, almost as if she has just had enough to drink to take off the edge. John stretches beside her, rolling onto his side to face her. His arm moves tentatively across her body so that she is trapped loosely under him. She turns her face up to his to find his own filled with marvel.

"That was…" he says wondrously.

She doesn't need to hear the words. Knows what he's going to say. Feels the same reflected deep down within her.

"I know," she says softly.

After a moment's hesitation, John leans in and captures her mouth. It's a soft kiss, filled with gratefulness. Love. She winds her fingers into his hair and pulls him closer to her. When he pulls away she nestles into his chest, breathing in the musk of sweat on him, of their two scents mixed together. He holds her tight to him as she winds her own arms around him and closes her eyes. His heart drums a reassuring beat beneath her cheek, and she finds herself counting the beats. Lulling herself.

No more words are spoken. They're not needed. Not now, not in this delicate afterglow. She knows what she feels, so strong in her heart. She knows it's reflected in John's.

She drifts off to sleep safe in the knowledge that the fight is close to being won. It's the best feeling of all.

* * *

' _But in the night he woke and held her tight as though she were all of life and it was being taken from him.' – Ernest Hemingway_

The days and nights since his return at Christmas have been nothing but heady bliss. There's been so much happiness in his heart that John is almost sure that one day it will burst from it all. There has been no greater gift than seeing the contented glow in Anna's eyes and knowing that it is there because of him. Their path is not quite clear just yet, but he is sure that it will only be a matter of time. Anna is still on bail, but the police haven't been sniffing around her, trying to make her fit into their ridiculous theories. He just hopes that that bastard, Vyner, is getting some uncomfortable scrutiny for the way he treated Anna throughout the whole process. One day very soon he hopes that this will all be over, and they can bury Green for good.

But for now, they relearn, yet again, how to live. Every spare moment they can conjure up they spend together, whether that's sharing a quiet cup of tea in the servants' hall, or an afternoon out in a more extravagant location. He is determined to shower her with as many nice things as he can muster to make up for all the terrible things she has had to endure.

She tells him that the only thing she needs is him.

When they are alone in their cottage, they spend most of their time sequestered together in the bedroom, worshipping each other with a desperation bordering on the frenetic.

It's at night that the happiness slips away. Not entirely, of course not. But enough that those old shadows creep back in, warping his perceptions. He is almost afraid to close his eyes at night in case he wakes and she is gone.

His dreams, even now, are still mostly nightmares. Nightmares of her screaming for him while he thrashes about, blinded by the darkness. Nightmares where she is sentenced to death for a murder she could never have committed. And nightmares where they are separated forever, and he lives out his days alone and afraid.

So many nightmares. So many horrors in the world.

He wakes now with a start, his heart pounding, sickening anxiety gnawing at his stomach. Cold sweat clings to his body like a second skin, and he reaches out, feeling only cold sheets beside him. She's not there, she's not there—

His fingers brush warm, silky skin, and the tears erupt behind his eyes without warning. His Anna. His darling, darling Anna. Breathing hard through his nose, he shuffles over to her, engulfing her in his arms. She must have rolled away from him in their sleep. But, for a heart-stopping, agonising moment, he'd thought that she'd gone. He buries his face in her hair and tries not to let the tears flow, but it is almost impossible. Simply breathing in the scent of her warm body, so familiar and intimate after years of sharing her bed, is enough to break him. He can't choke back his sniffles, and he cries, holding her as tight as he dare.

"John?"

Her voice jolts him; he hadn't expected her to be awake. Had he squeezed her too hard?

"John, what's wrong?" Her voice is laced with sleep, but there is no mistaking the worry in her voice. He tries to keep his own firm and assured.

"Nothing's wrong. Go back to sleep, love."

But he can't have been very successful, because she wriggles around as much as his tight embrace will let her to peer up at him.

"I know when there's something wrong, John. Please, tell me."

He is never able to resist her when she looks at him like that. "I'm just being stupid. I had…I had another nightmare. About you being gone. And when I reached out for you I didn't feel you right away, so I panicked."

Her eyes soften with sympathy. "Oh, John."

He scrubs a hand harshly down his face. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I can't seem to accept that we're back together again."

She reaches out and caresses his face. His eyes slide close and he nuzzles into her touch. Her fingers are so soft, so gentle, a loving caress. There's nothing on earth that makes him safer than her touch.

"It's all right to feel this way, John," she whispers. "I feel it too. It's only natural. We've been torn away from each other more times than is fair for any couple."

"I just feel like such a fool for feeling this way. And a fraud. You're the one who's been through all of the trauma recently."

"And you've experienced it right alongside me. Your suffering has been no less than mine. Different, yes, but just as painful." She shifts closer to him, splaying her hand over his heart. "I just pray that this will all be over soon and we can go back to living our life together without any more misery."

"Me too," he says. He'd give his arm for that. If he was wobbly at both ends, as Thomas had so snidely put it, then, well, it wouldn't matter to Anna. She'd love him anyway. And he would be safe in the knowledge that she was safe.

For now, there's nothing they can do but wait out the uncertainty together. They need to cling to the happiness they _do_ have and focus on the present. They have both been guilty of living in the past too much over their time together. They have to focus on the happiness they have now and wait out the storm. The storm clouds have got to clear one day…or so John tells himself. The truth about what happened to that bastard has to come to light, absolving Anna of any blame. People only need to look at her to know that she isn't capable of hurting anyone.

This has to turn out right. It _has_ to.

"I love you," Anna whispers.

"I love you too," he echoes. She shifts against him.

"We should try and get some more sleep," she says. "We have to get up for work in a few hours, and I know I'll be exhausted before I've even taken Lady Mary's breakfast up at this rate."

"You're right," he says, and settles back down reluctantly. She shuffles as far into his arms as she can get, and he tucks her under his chin.

He holds her a little more tightly than he ever has done before.

* * *

' _People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.' – Elizabeth Kubler-Ross_

More months of heartbreak and anxiety follow in the New Year. Sometimes, it's more than Anna thinks she can bear. But all of that hardship and suffering immediately becomes worth it the moment that her son is placed into her arms, bonny like his father, a warm, wriggling bundle pressed to her chest that makes tears well in her eyes. Happy tears once more. She bends down to feather kisses into the soft pale down of his hair and breathes in the scent of him. Nothing has ever been more perfect.

John is absolutely smitten the moment he sets eyes on them. He rushes over to the bed as fast as his knee will allow and, after checking three times that she really is all right, bends down to kiss her fiercely.

"I am so proud of you," he whispers, and kisses her again. Pulling away, he glances down at the babe, his large hand trembling as he touches him lightly, as if he is afraid he'll break him if he puts on any more pressure. "Hello, little one."

"'Hello, son'," she corrects him, her cheeks aching from how much she's smiling.

"Son," John says, his voice cracking. "Christ, a _son_. He's perfect."

"Wait until he starts crying," she jokes. She has never felt so light. Now, in this perfect moment, all of her troubles have gone. There are no worries or fears. She has her husband and her son, and nothing can ever be wrong now.

Tentatively, John perches himself on the edge of the bed. She shuffles across slightly to make more room for him, wincing a little as she does so.

"Are you all right?" John asks her at once.

"Never better," she reassures him. "Just a little bit sore. Your son is a Bates in every way."

John chuckles, looking mildly embarrassed. "Not in every way, though. He has his mother's colouring, and I thank God for that. I've a feeling that he's going to be the spitting image of you."

"You were wrong about him being a girl."

"But I know I'm right in this. Look, he's got your nose, and your eyes."

"They could change colour."

"They won't," he says confidently.

"Well, he has your name," she says, and his eyes glow.

"Yes. Baby Bates. Which really ought to be our cue to give him a proper name. As sweet as the nickname has been, I'm not sure that it works now he's here."

"He's always going to be our little Baby Bates."

"True. But I certainly wouldn't have thanked my mother if she ever said something like that to me. 'Johnny' was bad enough."

She giggles. He'll always be just John to her. It fills the image of her big, burly husband much better than Johnny does. "What about Jack?"

He wrinkles his nose. "I've never been Jack. And I can't imagine I'd ever get used to that now."

"Not for you, silly. For him."

It takes a moment for her words to register. When they do, his eyes widen comically. "What?"

She never lets her gaze waver from his face. "There's never been any doubt in my mind. I've always wanted to name a son after you. We'd Christen him John but we'd always call him Jack, so neither of you get confused."

John's throat works. His voice cracks. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you're happy."

"God, of course I am. But I'm not worthy of the honour."

"There's no one more worthy than you. I know you think that your mistakes define you, but you're wrong. Kindness defines you, and loyalty, and the way you care for the people around you. The way you love me, and our son. Your sense of honour, your desire to do anything you can to help those in need. _These_ are the things that truly matter. And I know that you will show our son how to be a great man."

John glances down at their boy, wrapped so snug and protected against her breast. "Are you sure?"

"Nothing could make me surer," she says, and he kisses her once more. It is finally time to let him have a taste of parenthood. After a few moments of fumbling, she manages to transfer little Jack to his arms, and is treated to father and son together for the first time.

They look so perfect. She has never felt prouder. Of him, of herself.

Time flies afterwards. Visitors blur into one another. She beams at them all, pleased as punch that everyone is cooing over her darling little boy, but secretly all she wants is to be alone with her family. Her wish is granted near midnight, when everyone disperses to see the New Year in with their loved ones. They cradle their son together, and see the New Year in with fresh hope in their hearts, all sealed with a kiss.

She wakes deep in the night to John's snores and Jack's snuffles. It feels so strange to be here, surrounded by Lady Mary's lavish things. She slips out of John's arms and peers in the crib. She can just make out Jack's tiny form in the darkness. She rests her hand over his warm belly for a moment before her gaze wanders around the room. It lands on the mirror in the corner. It seems to beckon her closer. She tiptoes over to it, and stands motionless before it. She holds her head high and juts out her chin. She looks at herself. Truly looks at herself.

Time has aged her from the young, carefree girl she once was. There are more lines of worry on her face, laughter lines too, and pregnancy has left her more filled out than she was once accustomed to seeing.

After the attack, she'd thought herself forever lost. Laughter was gone from her life. She'd forgotten what it was to be happy, how to exist as more than a ghost. She'd got through the days by thinking ahead to the next one. She'd forgotten how to live. Could only look upon herself with disgust. Still saw the bruises that had mottled her skin long after they had disappeared. Felt the agony between hr thighs with every step she took. A constant reminder of her failure and how far she had fallen. She hadn't been able to see beyond her own shame.

But John had shown her the way. He had nurtured her like a little injured bird and had given her back her wings. He had showered her with compliments, reminded her that he loved her with every single action that he took.

Her body might have changed over the years, but _she_ hasn't. It had taken her time to see that, but she sees it now.

She is still strong. Through every trial, she has not allowed her back to break. At times she has bowed under the pressure, but she has continued to fight. She still loves life, and the important people in it. She still laughs. She still enjoys the simple pleasures, like music and dancing and the weight of a book in her hands. She has reclaimed her body from the monster who defiled her. It is _her_ body once more, her body to treasure and to share with the man that she loves. No longer does she flinch away from contact or fail to find pleasure and security in those intimate moments with John. Her body has managed the greatest feat of all and has carried a child, a child made with love and devotion.

Through the mirror, she looks herself in the eye and smiles. With her husband's snores and her son's snuffles as the perfect background symphony, she can see the full picture.

At one time, she had felt less than human. Now, she is a wife again, and a mother, and above all a _woman._

She is a warrior, and nothing will ever beat her again.

Her metamorphosis is truly complete.


End file.
